The Oddfellow Manor: History as a Beginning, Hope as a Responsibility
When I began walking the halls of the Oddfellow Manor, I thought I was entering a piece of history.
But as the days and months unfolded, as each brick, board, and beam offered its quiet testimony, I realized I wasn’t entering the past at all.
I was entering a future that had been waiting for me.
And that future feels bigger than my own two hands, bigger than any single vision, bigger even than the story of the Manor itself.
Because what stands on this hill isn’t just a building. It is potential, resting patiently beneath a century of dust and silence.
It is a question: “What will you do with what has been entrusted to you?”
A Home Built on Purpose
The Odd Fellows built this home in 1908 with a mission: to care for those who could not care for themselves. It was not just a shelter. It was an act of love in brick and stone.
Standing in the shadow of that legacy, you begin to understand that this place was never meant to serve one lifetime. It was meant to ripple across generations, carrying forward the belief that community is not an idea, but a responsibility.
And what a profound responsibility it is.
The cornerstone still bears the names of the people who believed that care and dignity should be accessible, not optional. The monument to A.J. Wilkinson stands as a reminder that leadership rooted in service can echo far beyond a single life.
Their work planted something here. Not just a building, but a culture of purpose.
And that culture now finds itself in our hands, and soon, in the hands of the community that will gather here again.
Listening to a Place That Wants to Live Again
The more time I spend on this property, the clearer it becomes:
Some places do not want to be forgotten.
They want to be reborn.
You can feel it in the small details, in the doorframes worn smooth by a thousand hands, in the stone archways carved in confidence, in the stubborn strength of the old-growth oaks that rise like guardians around the Manor.
These are not artifacts. They are invitations.
With every photograph I captured for the Details of the Oddfellow Manor series, I found myself learning something unexpected:
Restoration is not about preserving what was.
It is about giving the past a chance to contribute to the future.
This property doesn’t simply deserve to stand. It deserves to be used , alive with learning, gathering, healing, creating, planting, teaching, sharing.
It deserves to matter again.
Hope as a Practice
Hope is not something that arrives fully formed. It grows slowly, like a seed pushing through dark soil.
Mine started as a flicker, just curiosity, admiration for the craftsmanship, a sense of sadness for what had been lost.
But as the months passed, hope grew roots.
It grew during long walks along the cracked driveways where the trees bowed overhead like cathedral ceilings. It grew in the quiet of the second floor where sunlight touched the brick in warm gold. It grew while reading the names of people long gone, yet somehow still present.
And now it grows toward something far larger than I initially imagined.
The hope I feel for the Oddfellow Manor is not personal. It is collective. It is generational.
It is the hope that a place of care can become a place of community again.
That a property built from generosity can return to generosity.
That land once used for sustenance and refuge can become a place where new skills are learned, where food is grown, where history is honored, where creativity is nurtured, where children play, where elders share wisdom, and where strangers become neighbors.
This kind of hope asks for more than admiration. It asks for participation.
It asks for vision. For partnership. For love.
Dreaming Beyond the Self
There is a moment in every stewardship journey when you realize the work is no longer about you.
It becomes about the hands that will come after yours.
About the children who will plant the trees you will never sit under.
About the families who will gather in rooms you restored.
About the stories that will be told long after your name has faded.
What we rebuild here will outlive us.
And that is the beauty of it.
Because this place is not meant to be a monument to one person’s effort, it is meant to be a living testament to what a community can do when it believes in restoration, education, and belonging.
My dream for the Oddfellow Manor is simple:
May it become a place where people discover the best parts of themselves.
A place where:
history is not merely observed, but felt
land is not merely maintained, but cultivated
skills are not merely taught, but shared
neighbors are not merely nearby, but connected
A place where the past and the future walk side by side.
Carrying the Story Forward
As this 24-volume series ends, I am not closing a chapter.
I am stepping into one.
And I am stepping into it with a steadiness that came directly from the Manor itself, from its resilience, from its quiet dignity, from the hope that rose in me every time I walked its halls or stood beneath its trees.
This is bigger than restoration. Bigger than preservation. Bigger than me.
This is the beginning of a movement, one rooted in care, community, and the belief that forgotten places deserve a second life.
Thank you for walking with me through the details, through the dust, through the beauty that reveals itself only when you are willing to look closely.
The Manor has waited long enough. Now, together, we begin the work of helping it live again.
